


Ashes

by wishfulmish



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Angst, Asexual Castiel, Asexuality, Episode: s05e04 The End, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 16:40:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4673900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wishfulmish/pseuds/wishfulmish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas used to be a phoenix, used to rise from the flames whenever he was struck down, but here he is, finally crumbled into ash and dust, scattered on the wind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ashes

He's on the ground again when Dean finds him. It's not a surprise; in fact, he'd been purposefully keeping his eyes glued there, in search of a stray arm or leg obstructing his path. There's no light here to guide his way as there had been when he'd hunted on the streets, and so when spots the lump for a brief moment he's unsure it's even human. For another, even briefer moment, he's unsure it's even alive.  
  
But that jackass just can't opt out of this one so easily. He's seen him try enough times to know.  
  
The dirt shifts beneath him as Dean plants his feet, then, after a minute with no indication of life, lifts one toe to nudge his side. No response. He nudges again. Cue a long, agonised groan from the lump, a slight stirring.  A growl from Dean as he hunches down beside it, shaking its arm. "Cas. Hey, Cas. Up and at 'em, you ass."

Cas groans again, but this time it’s accompanied by a rather feeble attempt to roll over. He somehow finds his way onto his back, squinting like it wasn’t the dead of night and instead the sun was commencing an unholy assault on his retinas. In any other situation, Dean would laugh. He’d mock Cas, compare him to a kitten, with his squint and his exposed belly and the sweet way his nose crinkles, simultaneously confused and bemoaning the existence of everything. But he doesn’t, because this is here and now. This is the end of all things, this is a time and place which transforms actions usually considered humorous into pathetic.

That’s what he is now. Words are thrown around the camp, usually in hushed whispers so as not to reach Dean’s ears, but he hears them anyway. Weak. Useless. Nothing but a fucktoy. He never comments, never tells Cas. He gets the feeling Cas knows regardless. Gets the even stronger feeling he agrees.

Dean doesn’t. He never says so, but he’s strongly opposed to that notion. Of course, on nights like this his stance wavers somewhat.

Cas coughs, eyelids lifting until they’re finally fully open, fixing Dean with a doleful stare. “Don’t save me,” he whispers, voice gritty and hoarse and barely audible. “Let me be punished.”

All Dean gives by way of response is a snort and a roll of his eyes, before he’s got his arms under Cas and he’s lifting him. Cas protests, but not strongly. There was a time when it would’ve been much harder to do this, Cas being nearly his size, but ever since the last of his grace disappeared he’s only been eating the bare minimum, hollowing his face and thinning his hips, so that by this point Dean can feel the bones. No one else cares, because that means more food to go around. Dean tried to force something down his throat at the beginning, but after a few futile attempts gave up. Cas was an adult, was older than everyone in the camp put together, older than the ground they stood on. He could take care of himself.

The walk back to Cas’ cabin is quiet, with only the occasional grumble from the limp owner of said cabin in his arms. A figure stands outside, and as Dean gets closer he recognises it as a woman, the same woman who’d informed him of Cas’ vanishing act. Katie, he remembers – the inhabitants of the camp like to ensure everyone knows their name, everyone knows their story. In a world where you could die at any moment, with no one to mourn you or even recall your existence, they find it comforting to leave behind even the smallest legacy.

And so there stands Katie – Katie the former account, Katie who’d owned a flat in the city, who’d had a dog and whose parents had been among the first infected – arms folded, watching him come up the path. “Did he wander far?”

Dean shakes his head. “Not really. But he’s completely out of it.” He jerks his head towards Cas in indication. “Sorry about that, but you ain’t getting any tonight.”

“I’ll live,” she says, face impassive. In all the time she’s been here, Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen her smile. But then, he could say that for most people here. The term ‘happy camper’ is used sarcastically for a reason.

He gives her a brief nod and pushes aside the beaded curtain, one foot in the door when she calls out to him. He turns, questioning, and Katie shrugs. “He only does this on the nights you patrol around. Just think on that.” And with that she’s gone, blending into the shadows, not giving Dean enough time to tell her he _has,_ and nothing’s come of it. He’s still unsure of the appropriate response.

Once inside, he dumps Cas unceremoniously on the bed – the only double in the whole camp – and steps back, surveying the damage. Drunk, tick. High as a kite, tick. He’s got some bruises on his elbows from where he must have fallen, and a long gash on his right cheek, though it doesn’t look too deep. Dean would offer to help patch him up but he knows he’ll be met with rejection. Cas stirs, pushing himself into a sitting position, hair lank and falling into his eyes. He combs his finger thorough it and gazes it Dean, emotionless. “I asked you for one thing, Dean.”

“Yeah, well.” Dean shrugs. “When have I ever done what you asked?”

Cas studies him for a moment, and then he grins, breaking the sombre spell. It’s a horrible grin, twisted and tarnished, a visible acknowledgement of how far he’s fallen. “True.” He settles back onto the bed, patting the space beside him. After a moment of hesitation and internal debate, Dean sits on the edge.

“So,” Cas says, folding his arms over his chest, and Dean silently marvels at how quickly he’s regained any sort of coherency after being nothing but a grumbling inebriate a moment ago. It could be due to some residual grace in there, speeding the removal of alcohol from his system. Or maybe, he thinks, mind flying back to Katie’s words, he wasn’t as drunk as he’d let on.

Cas watches him in silence for a moment, as if aware of Dean’s train of thought, before continuing, “I don’t suppose you happened to dropping in for a social call and noticed my absence?”

“No,” Dean replies, because it’s the truth. He’d just been passing by when Katie called him over.

“Of course not.” Cas sighs, but there’s no real disappointment to it, just resigned acceptance. “Our fearless leader has no time for those he can no longer use.”

Dean grits his teeth, an automatic protest forming on his tongue, but then Cas is up kneeling beside him, a finger held out to shush him. His eyes shine, but not with vitality. Not with power, or flame, and it hadn’t always been that way. At one point Cas’ eyes had burned so brightly Dean hadn’t been able to look in them for fear of igniting, too.

“I _can_ be of some use,” he murmurs, fingers coming to rest on Dean’s collarbone. And Dean must really be off his game, because just that simple touch sends a thrill through him that reaches down to his bones. He swallows thickly, Cas’ gaze boring holes through him like he’s a plank of timber laid out for the drill, fingers pressing harder, heat expanding.

The thing is, Cas doesn't touch him anymore. He wasn't exactly the clingy type in the first place, but he touched when it mattered; a soft press of the hand, usually to his shoulder, in times of distress. Fingers brushing his face, pulling the blood and pain away with them. He's even responded to the few attempts at hugs Dean's tried out, though he's never initiated one. They were simple, his physical comforts, but that was what made them effective. Now, though - now he treats his skin as if were made of the same material as angel blades, the thin, deadly silver with the potential to make Cas burn from the inside out.

And so it’s for this reason that, when Cas’ hand moves, slides up to his face to hold it, _him_ , Dean melts. It must look something like acceptance, because the next moment Cas’ lips are on his, hungry, claiming. Dean’s automatic response is to gravitate towards him, giving what he needs, or thinks he needs. There’s a second of clash, of lips and tongue and teeth, but they’re both trying to offer something up to the other in their own different ways, and so instead of being sexy and heated, it’s just plain awkward. Dean can’t make his movements compliment Cas’, no matter how hard he tries. Still, it’s not until Cas’ hand begins to slip downwards, hovering above Dean’s crotch – and he isn’t even _hard,_ for fuck’s sake. There’s some twitching, sure, but the aforementioned non-sexiness of the situation sort of cancels that out – that he manages to pull back, grunting “ _No”_ and shoving Cas in the chest with the palms of his hands.

Cas freezes, eyeing Dean curiously in search of an explanation. He clears his throat. “I – look, I’m not – I don’t want –“

He breaks off, all phrasing escaping him, and a look of realisation dawns in Cas’ eyes. He laughs, hollow as a scraped-out barrel, as Dean’s chest is starting to become. “Of course,” he manages in between chuckles, shaking out his head. “How could I forgot? Mr. Straight-As-An-Arrow,” he pauses, motioning, hand shooting out to map the arrow’s path, “here wouldn’t even _consider_ a liaison with – well, not a man. Having a dick doesn’t make me a man. But it’s the dick that turns you away, doesn’t it?”

“It’s not.” He growls it defensively, but it’s the truth. He’s long since past the point of denial, at the stage where dudes feature in his masturbatory fantasies nearly as often as women. Oddly enough, the end of the world tends to put a new perspective on things like sexuality, and how much it real matters when you’ve got a bunch of practical zombies on your ass.

He drags a hand down his face, because of course Cas isn’t going to believe him. Why should he? Dean’s the one who started giving him trust issues in the first place, what with the promise of being there for him after his grace faded.

“Cas, man, it’s got nothin’ to do with that. You’re – I mean, do you even like this? The sex stuff?”

Dean’s not expecting the question to take him off guard, but it seems to. He tilts his head in consideration, a reminiscent of the old Cas so strong it makes Dean ache all over. “It depends on what you mean,” he answers at length. “In terms of sexual attraction, I don’t feel it, no. Speaking strictly about the act of sex itself – well, I suppose I’m indifferent.” He shrugs. “I’d rather not participate in it, but then, a distraction’s a distraction.”

Dean snorts. “So that’s what I am now?”

“Not even. I have enough of those stockpiled already. This is more…conciliation.”

“What, you think I’m pissed at you?”

Cas blinks. “Internally, yes. You’ve been stewing from quite some time.”

Some sort of long-winded speech to debunk that notion would be ideal at the moment, but Dean doesn’t have one, since he knows even he wouldn’t believe it. He _is_ mad at Cas. Mad at him for staying, for giving up, for falling into “decadence”, as he’s so fond of calling it. He doesn’t know where the other angels fucked off to – some far distant planet, maybe, now colonised by a bunch of winged assholes – but he sure as hell knows it’s better than here. Better than becoming this. Cas used to be a phoenix, used to rise from the flames whenever he was struck down, but here he is, finally crumbled into ash and dust, scattered on the wind, and Dean wishes he could say it’s through no fault but his own. Except, of course, if Dean hadn’t been around to say that, had never existed, then Cas would be up there chilling on a cloud and all would be dandy.

So yeah, he’s mad at himself too. Or what’s left of him. Each day he feels more fragments detach themselves and spiral off into some sort of abyss, and he doesn’t need any physic abilities to know that soon, there’s going to be nothing left to lose. He supposes it can all be traced back to the night Sam said yes, but really, at least then he had a smidgeon of hope. Could pretend, desperately, that it was all part of his plan to rid the world of that bastard archangel for good. It was only when the virus was released reality smacked him in the face, and he realised there was no going back. That someday, he was going to have to pull the trigger on his own brother, or die trying.

He doesn’t tell Cas any of this.

Instead, he says, “Yeah, well, that happens when the guy who’s supposed to be your second in command stumbles into the field high as a kite. So if you’re looking to conciliate or some shit, then try stashing the crack for now.”

“If you insist.” It’s a blatant lie. The minute Dean leaves he’ll be shooting up again, and they’ll be no apologies. Still, it was worth a shot.

He stands, slapping Cas’ knee in a rare show of camaraderie that may never happen again. It’s stupid, because it’s not what he wants to do. Not where his hand wants to be. But he does it regardless, and tries for a smile. “Good. Still don’t know how you’ve made it this far without some Croat tearing into your ass.”

“Well, I am an ace,” Cas tells him with a shrug and an odd little smile. It takes Dean a minute of blinking and furrowing his brow before he fully catches on.

“Was – was that a _joke_?” Cas just shrugs again, and for some reason, that’s hilarious. So hilarious that Dean starts to laugh, and once he starts he can’t stop, the sound tumbling out of him, doubling him over, and Cas is chuckling too, softly, because the world has ended and they’re all going to die bloody and his junkie former angel best friend is here throwing out puns like nothing’s wrong. For a brief moment in time they’re just caught in a bubble, and Dean can pretend that it really is true.

The laugh dies off after a while, and he’s left with Cas staring up at him like he’s some kind of rare gem he found in his grandma’s jewellery box. On one hand, it makes him squirm, because at this point in time no one should be abl to look at him like. But on the other, he tear his gaze away. Doesn’t want to.

Cas smiles again, and it’s softer than he’s seen it in a long, long time. “I take it you’re not snatching up my offer of sex, then?”

“Not in a million lifetimes, buddy.”

 Cas tilts his head, smile dropping, studying Dean in a way that makes him even more uncomfortable than those dumbass eyes had before. He nods once, slowly, and the intensity with which he gazes at Dean in that moment makes him wonder if there’s more than a little angel left in there after all, stored up and bottled away lest a crumb remind him of the whole pie. When he speaks, his voice is low and honest. “And don’t I just love you for that.”

It’s a numb blow, weakening his bones instead of making them jostle. Not new information, more a confirmation of what he’d thought about but never dwelled upon. He should’ve known, when their lips touched, that this was imminent. Should’ve predicted the response that would form on his tongue, only to be squashed down. It’s too late.

“We’re going on another recon in the morning. Be ready. And sober.” Dean strides towards the door, hands clenched at his sides, not sparing Cas another glance. It’s not like either of them expect him to. It’s too late, and they’re both burnt out enough that acceptance comes all too easy.

Dean parts the bead curtains and steps outside.


End file.
